Poem from the Patio

I was sitting on the patio and noticed some ants, and so it goes... I was glad to work on a poem as I've felt kind of stalled out, probably because of being super-busy with teaching lately.

Weeds, Anthills

Did they crack our patio
or did cracks come before
in one or more earthquakes

before we lived here?
No one cares. It’s an old slab
of cement with no one

to repair it. Only I can
see it with spring filling out
the neighbor’s hydrangea

and our mock orange.

Spring Cleaning

I haven't been posting because I haven't been writing much, just a few notes here and there, hopefully toward a project that will ultimately come together in a more satisfying way, but too early to tell. I finally wrote a little poem that I felt I could post, so here goes.

Tidy

Goodbye, flickering lamp,
mismatched towels, threadbare

sweaters and jeans. The van
for donations comes today.

Mom calls it Tobacco Road
if we store boxes on the porch

even temporarily. Goodbye,
sturdy boxes from the liquor store.

Two Tiny Poems

Dear Blog-Friends, I haven't forgotten you, but I haven't been writing much poetry because of needing to write assignment sheets instead and also because of grading papers. Here are two very tiny poems, which, you never know, could become part of something bigger about "road trips" as I'm always wanting to write more about road trips since I do try and write in my notebook whenever we drive somewhere and stay in a motel...

And speaking of tiny poems, I'm collecting short poems for a mini-anthology called Poems for Your Pocket, with a submissions deadline of March 28. I plan to hand out the anthologies for free at the college on Poem In Your Pocket Day, so send me tiny poems if you want to participate.

After Mountains

An ancient restaurant
perched over a river--
let’s stop for root beer.

**

Interstate 5

My fingers hurt
from the cold and damp
and from driving.

The Little Road Over the Dam

I don't know if it's still like this, but it used to be you could drive over the top of the dam on Baker Lake. I don't usually write about being a kid, but I got this idea after reading the following prompt in In the Palm of Your Hand by Steve Kowit: "Recall something that happened many years ago near a body of water."

Baker Lake

Dad takes the narrow road
over the top of the dam.
In the back seat, we study the lake

like cats regard what’s behind
a shower curtain. We hear
each pebble under the tires

of the Malibu, watch
waves lap the dam, through
the residue of window decals

Dad tried to remove.

Poem in the Dark

It's still so dark in the morning. I usually sleep in, but sometimes I wake up early. I guess the events of this poem actually took place at like 5 in the morning, but it felt like the middle of the night.

Is it a shame that my poems don't have more "original" titles? I don't like to push it.

Well, I like that this poem fits in with my "weather" series. Also, I really like looking at the snow.

Middle of the Night

Woke up a little shook up
from dreams I couldn’t remember,

took my pills, looked out
between the blinds. Snow

had piled up while I slept,
everyone’s yards blurred together

under an unseen moon.

A List of Literature

I started this blog to nudge myself to write more, and over the past week or so, I've been reading a lot but writing very little. But then I was like, "Remember the blog!" and worked on this poem, which also owes something to the assignment I'm writing up for my poetry class for next week on using listing and/or repetition in poems.

Literature

All over our floor—
paperbacks from thrift stores,
hardbacks from libraries.

Debit card receipts,
coupons for medium pizzas.
A plea to save polar bears

with canvas grocery sacks.
I’ll write them a check.

Park at the Park at Your Own Risk

I may do a whole series of poems comprised of things I've seen through the windshield of my car... (Or maybe I won't. Who knows?)

Warning: High Car Prowl Area

By the lake in the city park
watch for suspicious activity,
low clouds, gray skies,

gray everywhere, more accurately,
because of the parking lot
and how the lake reflects

weather, pavement, feathers
of the bodies of migrating geese.

Rainy Day at Green Lake

Here's a poem from some notes I made earlier in the week while I sat in the car beside Green Lake, having an apple and cheese and watching some all-weather exercisers. The last line I'd say is kind of a tip of the hat to my grandma.

Joggers

Their raingear reflects headlights
and wicks moisture away

from their bodies. They follow
yellow arrows to miss bikes

and rollerblades, but nobody’s
on wheels today but babies,

strollers covered in plastic
like hairdos of careful ladies.

If I'd Thrown a Holiday Party

Well, I didn't throw a party, but I reflected on parties past. I did, however, need to solve the mystery expressed in the last two lines; luckily I was able to solve it quickly!

Party’s Over

Napkins, crumbs, toothpicks,
plastic wrap, coffee cups,

dessert forks, and more,
unfortunately, than a few

tiny flies, from the amaryllis
or maybe the oranges.

On the Flooded Highway

This is one of the poems I've been working on regarding the bad weather and flooding from early December 2007.

Macramé

Thick threads of headlights
in the north- and southbound lanes

can’t stop the river pulling loose—
a million knots give way,

dirt, branches, leaves
and water all over the place.

Welcome!

Thanks for visiting my new blog! I'm hopeful that this will be a little easier and more versatile. I'm planning to use this blog (as I used the old one) to post brand-new poems as I'm working on them. I've found that posting regularly can keep me going when I'm struggling to write, which is kind of happening lately.

I'm working on poems about two things just now: the weather and home (my home and other people's homes). If you've been reading my work for a while, you're probably saying, "This is nothing new." If there is anything "new" in my current work, it's that I'm writing a little bit about the flooding and awful weather that hit Washington state in early December; it wasn't too bad where I live, but there's been all sorts of trouble not too far south of here.

OK, to get the blog started, here's a new poem I worked on yesterday:

Not Ours

The privacy hedge half-hides
our backyard, not much

of our neighbors’, not the stoop
where their little terrier

barks at cats on our lawn
who come from who-knows-where.